


The Unsung and The Unfaithful

by liselle



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Captivity, Collars, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Erik is not a Happy Bunny, F/M, House of M elements, M/M, Submission, Torture, Wheel of Time influence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-06 05:15:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1845652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liselle/pseuds/liselle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik thinks of the collar and bracelets he crafted personally. He pictures Charles laughing in joy at touching his powers through that unique link between the collared and his keeper. </p><p>Erik can be patient, especially when it comes to his only true friend. Charles is blinded with anger at having lost this war. Given time, his friend will see that Erik only really means him well.</p><p>Erik just needs to show him how.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I was really intrigued by the damane and a'dam concepts in the Wheel of Time series (i.e. two powered individuals linked through a bracelet and a collar, with the wearer of the bracelet controlling the wearer of the collar). If you're interested in learning more about how this works (and avoid potential squick), check out this page - http://wot.wikia.com/wiki/Damane.
> 
> There won't be any actual rape scenes, but consent is always a tricky matter when one party is held under captivity, hence the warning.
> 
> I love Asian imagery, so you will probably seeing alot of East Asian (particularly Chinese and Japanese) references as well.

Magneto watches coldly from his position at the head of the assembly as the prisoners of war shuffled across the crowded city square. Humans, human sympathisers, those who have resisted the rise of the mutant rule, who have rebelled against their rightful leaders.

The crowd bursts out into an uproar when the Red Guard drags forward a man in the light grey prisoner garbs which identified a mutant. They fling him to the ground in an unceremonious heap, where he lies prone, with the heel of a guard’s boot against his back. Genosha has shed her fair share of blood for her freedom, and her people remember it. More than they hate the humans, those pathetic _homo sapiens_ who fought valiantly against their eventual extinction, they hate the traitors who aided their enemies, those _homo superior_ who forgot who their true brothers and sisters are.

The leader of the rebel mutant faction does not look terribly impressive up close. Matted brown curls covers his forehead, which is stained with dirt and grease from days spent in the hovels where prisoners are kept before delivery to the government prisons. A long gash runs down the side of one dirty cheek, and those once ridiculously red lips are chapped and scarred at where their owner had tore away the dried dead skin.

Beside Magneto, Azazel begins reciting the long list of atrocities this man had committed.

The crowd falls silent as Azazel’s speech comes to an end. Sheltering human soldiers, betraying the names of Genoshan mutant soldiers fighting for Genosha’s cause. aiding and abetting rebel efforts.

Prolonging the human-mutant war, thus resulting in the loss of more mutant lives.

“Hang him!” someone shouts, and the crowd picks up the cry in an almost frenzied chant.

Certain customs advocated by Magneto’s counsel are a tad _uncivilised_ , but they certainly serve their purpose. Nothing brings back the lives of loved ones slaughtered by humans, but the sight of your loved ones’ murderers swinging in the air with their necks at a grotesque angle goes a little way toward quenching the thirst for vengeance.

This man could be sent to the gallows, if Magneto does not intervene.

The guards pull the man to his knees, and hold him upright with a firm fist in his hair. Even defeated and alone, this man carries himself with dignity. He isn’t particularly tall or muscular; in fact, he would be shorter than many women, if he only managed to stand. He also has none of the discerning mutant physical attributes that Genosha covets.

Yet he is undeniably one of the most powerful mutants in existence.

 _Was_ , Magneto thinks grimly, taking in the scar at the side of the man’s head, almost unnoticeable where the man’s hair is starting to grow back. A mutation suppression device, one of those cruel human inventions, now used by mutants against their own kind out of necessity.

Magneto raises a hand, and an uneasy silence falls across the square.

“I believe mutant kind has a need for one of our _most_ gifted.”

 _“The collar for the great Charles Xavier,”_ Magneto says. Next to him, Emma draws in sharp intake of breath as disbelief spreads across her face. Azazel’s expression mirrors hers. They both know what collaring a mutant as power as Xavier entails.

Magneto ignores them as he strides down to where the prisoner was held. The crowd stands as still as marble statues as he stops right before the prisoner and kneels, lifting a finger to tip the man’s head back.

Blue eyes, calm and resolute, even at the announcement at a fate worse than death, meet Magneto’s own.

“Hello, old friend,” Magneto says.

The prisoner’s mouth twisted in bitter mirth. “Don’t suppose I could reject this honour, could I?”

“I’m afraid not, Charles,” Magneto wants to wipe away the look of betrayal in Charles’ eyes.

Around them, Genosha’s loyal subjects see their ruler’s forbearance and erupt into cheers.

***

Charles is seated upright on the medical bed with his hands folded almost primly across his lap. He cleans up well – a bath, haircut and a shave later, and his friend looks almost the image of the arrogant young man Erik had met twenty years ago.

The only differences are his legs, thin and frail from disuse, the hum of the metal of the suppressor under Charles’ skin at the side of his head, and the finely etched signs of wrinkles at the sides of those brilliant blue eyes.

“They tell me that this should not leave a scar.” Erik lightly presses a finger to the gash on Charles’ cheek.

 “I have many already. What is one more?”

Erik lets his finger fall to the side of Charles’ neck as Charles shifts to avoid his touch. He understands Charles’ reluctance; it has been too long since they could freely and easily touch each other as friends. Touching Charles now has a different thrill to it. It almost feels _intimate_ , because it has the forbidden thrill of being _wrong_ , now that they are officially enemies in the public’s eyes.

He traces the veins in Charles’ neck, imagining the gleaming silver of the matching collar to the bracelets Erik will wear around Charles’ neck.

Charles jerks roughly to the side and slaps Erik’s hand away.

Erik sighs, “You will thank me for this, Charles.” His friend obviously does not understand. “This,” Erik continues, pressing his finger to the bald patch of new-born skin at the side of Charles’ head, “this will drain you, my friend.”

“It will leech you of your mutant gifts, until the day comes when you won’t be able to access your powers, even if I removed this metal from your head.”

“You will waste away without your powers, Charles,” Erik continues. “You need to realise this is the only way I can keep you alive.”

Charles looks at him uncomprehendingly for one long moment. His shoulders then begin to shake, and Erik realises he is _laughing_. Erik feels a slow coiling warmth in his belly as Charles continues to tremble in uncontrolled mirth, and with a start, Erik identifies his own emotion as _anger_.

“You are hilarious, Erik,” Charles chokes out, “I’ve survived eight years without my powers, partially thanks to _you_. I have survived another two months recently, and can certainly go on for the next couple of decades, if need be.”

“On drink and _drugs_ ,” Erik hisses, “Wasting away on _human_ addictions, because you could not deal with your powers at that time, and did not know that being without it will also kill you.

Charles’ expression turns cold. “What will you have me be then, old _friend_? A dog at your heels, eagerly panting for every sign of your approval, rolling over to be tickled on the belly just so it can access its telepathy?”

Suddenly, Charles grabs Erik by his collar and pulls him down, their foreheads almost touching. For one fleeting moment, Charles’s eyes blaze with such rage, that Erik almost thinks that Charles will move those hands ever so slightly up towards his neck and try to choke the life out of him.

He almost wishes Charles would give it a go.

“You should have killed me when you had the chance, Erik,” Charles snarls, before releasing him.

Charles’ unspoken words lie between them.

_I should have killed you when I had the chance._

“You leave me with no choice, Charles,” Erik says finally.

He thinks of the collar and bracelets he crafted personally. He pictures Charles laughing in joy at touching his powers through that unique link between the collared and his keeper.

Erik can be patient, especially when it comes to his only true friend. Charles is blinded with anger at having lost this war. Given time, his friend will see that Erik only really means him well.

Erik just needs to show him how.

 

 


	2. One (Part One)

“I don’t suppose any amount of reasoning can talk you out of this madness,” Emma says from behind him.

Magneto ignores her, choosing instead to gaze out of the glass panes which stretch from the floor to the ceilings of his office suite. Genosha wears the scars of the war for freedom proudly. Even as Genoshans grieve over their loved ones at the memorials erected for the fallen soldiers, the city is growing at a pace which is far beyond the imagination of mankind. Graceful skyscrapers already soar towards the skies, rebuilt by Genoshans after the destruction of the war, and plans for the country predict hundreds more to come, to house the expected arrival of thousands, millions of mutants seeking refuge with their own kind.

Even from afar, Genosha shines with pride, her magnetic dome capable of shielding her from any existing means of physical attack from the humans. Upon sealing victory and ensuring Genosha’s independence, Magneto had gathered his most trusted and powerful advisors, and raised the shield under their watchful eyes. It had taken him one full day and night to erect the magnetic dome; a time during which he was at his most vulnerable from human and rebel mutant attacks.

Emma was one of the circle members who had protected him during the raising of Genosha’s shield. She told him that he had collapsed immediately after the shield was erected, and slept for a full five days after the endeavour as his mutant body fought to regain what strength he had poured into Genosha’s shields. There was a time when they had feared he would not survive the attempt, but Emma had stood strong against all calls for a regent. She was one of the few who had steadfastly refused to leave his side.

And now she is attempting to dissuade him from what will ultimately be his greatest contribution to his mutant brothers and sisters.

Strong as his magnetic shield may be, it is not impenetrable. Eventually, there will be an attack which succeeds in destroying the magnetic fields which continuously feed the shield with its power. The fields are replaceable as long as he lives, but Magneto had no delusions of immortality.

He intends to see the domination of mankind by mutants as the superior race before his time is over, and having Charles working _with_ him instead of against him, using whatever means necessary, would ensure that.

Emma tsks impatiently behind him. “The Professor is not someone who can be collared like some second-level mutant. You have absolutely no idea what the repercussions of collaring an omega-level mutant will be.”

Magneto turns around. “On the contrary, Emma, I am perfectly aware of the potential consequences, and am very much well prepared for it.”

Emma lifts an elegant eyebrow. “I know you intend to be his handler, and I certainly do not challenge the theory that if anyone is able to control an omega-level mutant, it can only be another mutant of equal power. I doubt very much, however, that there is any collar that is able to sufficiently contain the power required to do so.”

He rolls up his sleeves and raises a hand, silencing her further objections. At the far left of the room, a metal cache springs open at his bidding, and a flick of his fingers calls the bracelets and the collar to his hand. The bracelets split into halves and re-weld themselves around his wrists into a seamless clasp, able to be removed by none but Magneto himself.

“Do you still doubt, Emma?” Magneto asks, running a fond hand across the collar, feeling its metal and the intricate weaves of magnetic force bound tightly into the molecules of the metal singing out to him.

Emma bows her head in graceful acquiescence. “You have been planning for this for quite a while.” She does not quite succeed in masking the slight disapproval in her voice.

Had he? The bracelets and collar were crafted across the span of five weeks, where he worked whenever he could steal a few precious minutes away from the constant strategising, planning, fighting against whatever latest weapons the human brought against them. They were meant to be the final culmination of what was once thought a futile dream – he had no absolute conviction that he would be able to defeat Charles, much less capture him alive.

Long before the idea of the bracelets and the collar were ever conceived, long before the first collared mutant, however, he had dreamed of having Charles by his side, his _equal_. He had thought that Genosha would be a common dream for the two of them, a safe haven for mutant-kind to flourish without fear.

Apparently not.

If this is the only way to bind Charles to him, so be it.

“Ever since I first met him,” Magneto replies, shaking out his sleeves so that they fall over the bracelets on his wrists, thus hiding them from sight.

***

He keeps Charles in a secluded part of the citadel, far away from the prying eyes of his advisors and staff. He had overseen the design of these suites himself; its walls pulsed with the power of Erik’s magnetic weaves, laced into the metal which lined each panel. The rooms are comfortable enough, with their tapestries and the rich red carpeted floors. Charles may not be able to appreciate the latter, but his friend used to at least love the sight of old-world luxury.

He even lined the shelves in the suites with every conceivable subject of interest – geology, Genoshan politics, history, physics, chemistry, and of course, genetics studies.

Charles is lying on the bed, his back propped up by the pillows placed there by the serving maids. Based on what the servants say, he rarely moves from where they position him, even though his wheelchair rests just next to the bed.

“You look awful, old friend,” Erik says.

Charles looks up at him with a wry smile. “My apologies for not looking my best while graced with the presence of the great ruler of Genosha.”

“Really, Charles, it’s only been a few days,” Erik fondly tangles his hand in Charles’ messy brown curls. Charles certainly looks quite the sight. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, and Erik catches sight of faint scars just under the loose sleeves of Charles’ robe – it is a common habit of mutants who are entirely cut off from their powers to harm themselves. When you are nearly wild from losing a part of yourself so crucial to the core of your very existence, pain is really the only way to remind yourself that you are still alive.

Whatever Charles claimed, he had never truly experienced being entirely cut off from his telepathy. Erik has read the reports on the ‘mutant cure’; the serum merely temporarily dampens a mutant’s gifts by altering certain parts of a mutant’s DNA sequence.  A ‘cured’ mutant can still feel the core of his or her being, and the more powerful the mutant, the less effective the serum will be in suppressing the mutant gene. Under the influence of the serum, a powerful telepath would have still been able to touch upon the emotions of others at the most basic level; it may not have appeared to be more than heightened emotional sensitivity, something that even base humans may have, but it is still remnants of the mutant gene.

The inhibitor works entirely differently; it blocks access to the gifts afforded by the X-gene without altering the mutant’s DNA sequence.  A mutant with an inhibitor will still reach out for his or her powers, only to find a wall where the source of the power lies.

Human studies claimed that a moderately powered mutant wastes away within a year if inhibited from accessing their powers. The stronger the mutant, the worse the effects of the inhibitor.

No mutant captured by Genoshan soldiers has had an inhibitor used on them for more than month – there are always other means that can be used to contain a mutant, methods which are far less cruel.

Charles has had the inhibitor embedded under his skin for more than two months.

Before his sentence, Charles had been in the presence of other captives; they had probably served as a distraction from his own loss for those two months. After, he had been moved to solitary confinement, left with nothing to dwell on but the gap left by the loss of his powers. Erik remembers their conversation in the infirmary after he announced Charles’ sentence, Charles’ rapid mood swings, the almost feral nature of the anger in Charles’ eyes when Charles had grabbed Erik by his collar, the twisted curl of Charles’ mouth as he snarled in fury.

It will not be long before Charles descends fully into madness.

“I hear you have been refusing to eat,” Erik says gently.

“Surely you can’t be worrying that I will disgrace you while you collar me like an animal in public,” Charles says incredulously, “I would think that you want to humiliate me to the furthest extent possible, treat me like the traitorous creature you’ve made me out to be before your loyal subjects.” He sweeps the untouched tray of food off the side table. The plastic tray crashes to the floor, its contents, mainly soups and liquids, spilling across the carpet.

Erik had not allowed Charles any metal utensils, nothing that he could use to hurt himself. He catches Charles’ wrist and pushes up the sleeves of the robes, studying the scratches left behind by Charles’ blunt fingernails. Teeth marks too, from where Charles had bitten himself in frustration.

Charles tries to twist his wrist away from Erik’s grasp, but he is no match for Erik physically, not when he is weaken by captivity and half-crazed from the loss of his powers. By the time Erik releases his wrist and looks up, Charles’ cheeks are flushed red with embarrassment.

“Is that what you think of me?” Erik asks, “You must understand that I will never intentionally hurt you.” He raises his hands to cradle Charles’ face, watching those blue eyes widen in terror when Charles finally see the bracelets clasped around his wrists.

“You are precious to me, Charles,” he continues. Perhaps not today, but one day in the future, Erik hopes, Charles will be able to understand that he is not the only one who has had all of his choices stripped away from him.

Charles is struggling in earnest now. “Don’t do this, Erik.” Not quite a plea, his friend is still far too proud for that, but his voice is desperate and distressed.

“It is easier this way, Charles.” The collaring of a mutant is usually performed in public; it is after all, a sentence which is meant to serve as deterrent for any other who wishes to oppose the mutant rule in Genosha. He refuses to make a spectacle out of Charles. Far better to do it in the privacy of these rooms, where no one can hear Charles’ screams, and scream he will, Erik has no doubt.

The silver collar encircles Charles’ neck seamlessly even as the upper half of Charles’ body trashes futilely in the confine of Erik’s arms. Charles is still unable to feel the effects of being collared, not with the inhibitor still lodged in his head.

 A small flick of his powers, and the metal of the inhibitor goes dead.

Charles stiffens in his arms instantaneously, as if he was shot.

The next second the screaming starts.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reason why I split this chapter into two halves is at this point of the story, I am still not sure if I ever want to explore the effects of collaring from Charles' point of view, or narrate the full 200K+ words in Erik's voice (god help me). The dilemma actually starts now, and I will be absolutely grateful if anyone has any feedback on this.
> 
> Thank you for all the kudos and the comments! I've been going through quite alot of changes in life recently, and starting to write again really helps.


	3. One (part two)

“You need to stop fighting, Charles,” Erik pushes Charles down onto the bed and climbs atop of him. Charles writhes and twists under him frantically; to any casual observer, it would seem as if Erik is simply restraining a mad man who screams at some hidden demon in his mind.

 _Kill him kill him need to get him **out out out**_. Erik blocks the mental screams out of his mind. So this is what it feels like to own Charles’ collar – to feel the warmth of the tiny trickles of Charles’ power seeping through Erik’s own veins, to be hyper-aware of every fibre of Charles’ being. He can taste the sourness in Charles’ mouth, the growing terror in the pit of Charles’ belly as each psychic barb hurled at Erik rebounded and fell apart like broken glass at his own feet. Dimly, like a faded image at the back of his mind, he feels the searing pain across Charles’ skin which serves as punishment for each attempted attack at his handler.

Erik reactivates the inhibitor, and the screaming stops, just as the pain at the back of his mind gradually fades away.

Charles is sobbing openly now, his chest heaving as he draws his breath in painful rasps.

Erik slowly moves off Charles and settles onto the bed, gathering Charles to him and whispering nonsense into his hair. He tries not to think of how Charles had tried to kill him. Repeatedly.

“You must not fight me,” Erik says soothingly, “Every attempt will only rebound upon yourself two-fold.” He does not know if Charles can hear him, but the trembles subside as he slowly rocks Charles in his arms.

“I am going to deactivate the inhibitor now.” Erik unfurls his powers towards the inhibitor under Charles’ skin. “But you need to promise not to try to use your powers against me. Remember, you will only harm yourself; the pain will not actually touch me.”

Ages seem to past before he finally sees an almost imperceptible nod from Charles.

Erik presses his fingers to the side of Charles’ head as a caution to Charles before leeching the life from the inhibitor. Charles stays deadly still in his arms.

“See, it is not so bad.” Erik tilts his head to the side as he ponders over this new awareness of Charles that has lodged itself in his mind. It isn’t so much of him personally experiencing Charles’ feelings and sensations, but _knowing_ what Charles is feeling. He has an open book right before him, its pages filled with the essence of Charles Xavier.

Carefully, he tries altering the foreign sensations in his mind. Charles stiffens, and Erik immediately feels him instinctively reach out for his telepathy. He gives Charles the mental equivalent of a light tap on the wrist.

Charles spins around and glares fiercely at him.

Charles’ expression is so incongruous with the situation they are in that Erik bursts out laughing. Ruffling Charles’ hair fondly, he sets about smoothing away the remnants of hurt left over from the rebound of the psychic attacks. It is intriguing, how he is able to just wipe away sensations as he would erase words from the pages of a book.

Charles relaxes, and Erik finally allows himself some respite from the constant watch he kept on Charles’ mind since the reinstatement of the link.

It is his first mistake.

The next second, his head snaps back from the heavy blow Charles dealt him under his chin. Distantly, the lump of sensations that is Charles reels back from the backlash through the link. Before Erik can react, Charles has his hands around his neck.

Charles’ fingers flexes against his neck as Charles tries, to no avail, to exert even the slightest bit of pressure against Erik’s skin. With each passing second, the frustration in Charles’ mind fades, slowly being replaced by horror at his own incapacity, staring at him right in the face.

“Charles,” Erik sighs. There will probably be an impressive bruise to show for Charles’ efforts by tomorrow. Under his exasperation, he is slowly, but surely, losing his temper.

Charles lets go of his neck and balls up his fist to deliver another punch as Erik wills himself to be patient. Finally, at long last, Charles lets out a cry of frustration and twists violently away from Erik; out of the confines of Erik’s arms, the movement jerks Charles off-balance and brings him crashing over the side of the bed.

Erik swings his legs over the side of the bed and watches coldly as Charles frantically tries to tear the collar off his neck. Fierce gashes begin to appear at the nape of his neck where Charles’ fingernails had slipped from the silver of the collar.

“Stop that,” Erik says irritably.

“Take this filthy thing off me,” Charles snarls angrily as he continues scrabbling wildly at his neck.

“It wasn’t a suggestion, Charles.” Erik focuses on the extra presence in his mind and wills Charles’ hands down to his sides. It is uncanny to see Charles’ hands fall obediently down; as if he is controlling a puppet without strings. He wonders if this is what it is like for Charles when he takes over someone’s mind.

Charles lets out a yell of anger and scrambles backward, his limp legs dragging across the carpet as Charles almost tears out the carpet in his haste to get away from Erik.

Erik lets Charles reach the door, just to let Charles try to reach up for the knob and fail. Just when Charles’ desperation is about to reach its peak, Erik strides over, lifts him up, and places Charles’ hand on the knob.

“Go on,” he says, even as he reaches through the link and wills Charles’ hands into useless knots of muscle.

He holds Charles in his arms for a long while as Charles engages in his inward struggle against Erik’s influence. He can be benevolent when it comes to Charles; he had been over-optimistic in thinking that Charles would grasp on to the effects of the link once collared; apparently, being a telepath with power over anyone’s minds gave no insight when it came to being under the power of someone else’s will.

When Charles finally sags back into his arms in defeat, Erik carries him back to the bed. His friend had lost a lot of weight in a short period of time. Looking down, he can see that Charles’ cheekbones are so much more sharply defined; it brings Charles’ eyes all the more strikingly blue. He likes this new look on Charles, especially with the bright sheen of tears that still shine from Charles’ eyes, the glimmer of moisture that threatens to fall from those long lashes when Charles inclines his neck.

Erik reaches for the intercom and summons for a servant. Within minutes, a serving maid appears, fresh tray in hands. She curtsies briefly at Erik and goes to cleaning up the mess of the toppled tray from the carpet, steadfastly ignoring Charles as she does so.

The sight of the collar does tend to unsettle people, Erik muses, carelessly running a finger across the rim of the collar, now warm from the heat of Charles’ flesh.

When the serving maid finally curtsies out of the room, Erik scoops up a spoonful of the steaming soup and puts it to Charles’ lips. “Eat.” As expected, Charles twists his head away. Erik allows him this momentary small display of defiance. Let Charles have these petty victories if it appeases him.

His magnanimity dissipates when he is left holding the spoon, without any sign of Charles relenting. “I believe you would prefer to eat of your own will, rather than have me direct you to do so.” As a demonstration, he wills Charles to turn his head back towards the spoon.

Trembling with anger, Charles reaches out to take the spoon from Erik. For a fleeting second, Erik entertains the thought of feeding each mouthful to Charles, as Charles lies helpless in his arms, under his command, but decides against it.

It will not do to have Charles too angry at him, after all. 

He is already beginning to feel rather tired.

***

When Charles is finally finished, Erik takes away the bowl and places it on the side table. An uneasy silence rests between them; Erik keenly feels Charles’ desire to reach out for his telepathy, a desire matched only by the overwhelming urge to strangle Erik with his bare hands, and tempered only by the memory of the scalding pain over every inch his body.

“I was thinking we could perhaps try the first,” Erik says. Charles looks up, confusion written across his expression.

“Go ahead, reach out for your powers,” Erik says, “By now, I’m assuming you are no longer foolish enough to try to kill me with it,” he adds wryly.

“And here I’m assuming that you are not foolish enough to think that I will every use my powers on _your_ terms, for _your_ cause,” Charles snaps. “A pretty pair we make, don’t you think?”

“I _asked_ you to join me at my side.” Erik cannot believe that they are still reliving this conversation, years after the event. “You gave me no other choice.”

“ _I_ gave you no other choice?” Charles laughs hysterically. “Here I am, paralysed, collared, _helpless_ , and you claim I gave you no choice?” He digs into the fabric of the comforter under him. “I can’t even kill myself if I wanted to. Do you understand, Erik?”

“Given the choice, I would have sooner _died_ than choose this,” He tears at the collar around his throat, “But I was never given the choice. So pardon me when I find it _absolutely_ hilarious that my captor actually finds it in him to blame this entire farce on _me_.”

“What have I done to deserve this, Erik? Is it because I choose to save those who are persecuted by _your_ kind? Is it because I did not join you in your genocide against mankind?”

“I have never harmed another mutant in battle, except in defence. I have mutants coming to me for help, for _healing_ after suffering injuries from the aftermath of _your_ crusade.”

“So tell me, _Magneto_ , what have I done to deserve this?”

Erik lets Charles tear into him verbally, until Charles finally sinks back against the pillows, exhausted from his tirade. He swallows the impulse to say, _you rejected me_ , choosing instead the safer option. “You said it yourself.” He walks over to the tumbler at the dressing table. _Charles always did love his Scotch_ , and pours himself a generous two fingers, before repeating the motion with another glass.

“I have you paralysed, collared, helpless and at my mercy, and now I want you to _rule with me_ ,” Erik offers the second glass to Charles, who refuses to take it. Erik shrugs and places it on the side table.

“Is that so hard for you to accept?” He touches the collar, trying to ignore the hot thrill of want that goes down his belly when Charles flinches instinctively away from the touch like a skittish animal. “This, _this_ is temporary,” he says.

“And this is where I’m giving you a choice, Charles,” he says, “Choose to join me, and convince me of it. _Then_ we will have no need for this contraption.”

“Till then,” Erik shrugs, “I suppose _I_ will need to convince _you_ that no amount of fighting or persuasion from your end is going to change my mind.”

“Now,” he says, downing the last of the Scotch, “Let’s start again, shall we? Reach out for your powers, Charles.” The longing to touch a mind intensifies as Charles struggles against his base instincts before giving in, not so much to Erik’s command, but to his own desires. Slowly, Charles brings his fingers up to his temple. The space in Erik’s mind is suddenly occupied by foreign voices; hushed sounds which make no sense, smatterings of emotions which melt away before he manages to touch them; through it all, Charles’ presence shines through, a trail of raw power that embeds itself in Erik’s mind.

Almost as if he is wielding that power in his own hands.

Again, he sees the intention before Charles acts on it, foresees the white-hot flash of pain that sears his awareness of Charles before it happens. Charles falls back onto the bed, writhing and gasping as he struggles against the invisible pull of the collar. Erik supposes it is that instinctive reaction against the unexpected pain that has Charles reaching out again for his telepathy, this time without Erik’s express permission.

He slams a wall up between Charles and the bright flare of Charles’ power before Charles could do any further damage to himself.

“I suppose you had to try for Azazel,” Erik says. “It is the logical thing to do, and I forgive you for it. The backlash from the collar is sufficient punishment for now.”

He takes the glass of Scotch and presses Charles’ mouth open. “To calm your nerves.” The golden liquid trickles down the white expanse of Charles’ throat as Charles chokes on the liquor. Erik quenches the slow burning flame of desire as the liquid makes it way down Charles’ chest, leaving a dark patch on Charles’ white robes.

“Now, we try again.”

***

It takes two hours before Erik is able to get Charles to hold on to his telepathy for more than five minutes without Charles collapsing into screams, and another three before he is able to personally wield the delicate strands of Charles’ power for more than a minute without Charles suffering a backlash from instinctively trying to knock Erik out of his mind.

It is slow progress, but he is getting there. _They_ are getting there. He finds the process itself exhilarating. Charles’ power is so different from his own; where the pulsing of the song of metal through his soul feels like a raging storm, Charles’ touches upon the human or animal consciousness is as delicate as glass – slightly too hard a touch will shatter the mind.

He had to relearn everything he built the foundation of his powers upon – for Erik, the point of focus had been the eye of the storm; it is the focus that he uses to bring the whirlwind of his powers under his command. Charles’ telepathy is like a calm stream of consciousness that he is able to dip into at will; if he tried to wrangle it into submission the way he did his control of metal, the stream turns into a raging torrent that could very well sweep his own sense of self away.

It takes him awhile to stop himself from trying to force the same control he uses on his powers upon Charles’ telepathy; but he eventually manages to carefully weave the power he draws from Charles’ being into the delicate tendrils that Charles uses to probe another’s mind.

Charles looks up at him from under half-lidded eyes as he experiments with this newfound discovery. His old friend had not said a word for the past hour, not since Erik had developed this new control over his telepathy.

Erik pauses, still half drunk on the psychic power that flows through his veins, and carefully searches the other awareness in his mind. Charles seems strangely lethargic. Languid, like a cat stretched out to rest too long under the cool shade, none of the fight from the earlier half of the day to be found.

“It happens, doesn’t it,” Charles comments drowsily, “When you’re new to mastering your powers, and you simply cannot stop drawing on it.” Erik leans forwards and tilts his head up; Charles’ eyes look _drunken_ , glazed over as if he had been drugged.

On his own telepathy, Erik realises. He had been inadvertently pouring his high on drawing on Charles’ powers into Charles. A curious development, to be able to coax obedience out of Charles in this manner.

“But not unwelcome, is it.” Charles’ lips twists sardonically. “Isn’t this what you want?”

Erik chooses to ignore him and focuses instead on the fact that Charles had managed to pick the thought out of his head.

Meaning that Charles wasn’t trying to harm him.

“I would kill you if I could,” Charles caresses his neck; the gesture would have seemed almost tender, if Erik didn’t know that Charles meant every single word.

The thought of violence excites him; especially with Charles’ powers crackling across the edges of his senses, the way Charles’ telepathy coils around him like a lazy cat. He runs his thumb across too-red lips, watches Charles’ eyes droop in response to his touch and the compulsion of contentment that Erik can’t help placing on him.

He presses a kiss to the side of Charles’ mouth.

He makes sure that Charles will not remember it come tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need a beta-reader (desperately) - I generally write only in the wee hours of the morning, and don't have a habit of reviewing what I've written. Heh.


	4. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik finally allows Charles to leave his rooms. He introduces Charles to his children, a strategic move, he thinks, at the time.

Erik doesn't know when it became this – to have his entire existence boiled down to a single focal point. _Charles_. It is surreal; waking up to Charles beside him, their minds almost lazily entwined together. Feeling Charles wake up had been another heady experience; he wonders how Charles could have given this up willingly – the flood of thoughts and emotions in his mind when he unfurls his awareness, the sense of _existence_ that came with his telepathy.

Through it all, the link between him and Charles pulsed strongly. Even now, he feels Charles moving around in the washroom, the movements he makes as he goes about self-catheterising – Erik feels a twinge of guilt at that – the relief of warm water splashing against skin when Charles washes his hands and wets his face after.

When Charles comes wheeling out of the washroom, eyes bright and damp hair curling at the sides of his face, Erik pulls Charles to him by his wheelchair, loving how Charles doesn’t resist when Erik lifts him up from the chair and settles him against the pillows. He moves down the bed, hearing Charles stifle a surprised gasp when Erik started to knead the lifeless flesh, slowly massaging an illusion of life into Charles’ legs.

“I won’t be back until night,” he says, as his hands continue to work.

“Am I supposed to spend the next ten hours in this room then?” A spark of anger from Charles across the link; for a moment, Erik was almost tempted to say no, _come with me, I want you with me_ , but he quells the urge resolutely.

“You can call for anything you need,” Erik says, “Books, if you want, or you can have the maid in here with you if you have need for physical conversation.” He gets off the bed and starts getting dressed, scoffing the need for any decency, although it amuses him when Charles quickly averts his eyes when Erik pulls off his pyjama trousers.

 _A maid!_ Charles retorts in his mind before realising it. Erik smiles at the vestiges of that entitled arrogance Charles still retains.

“I am sure you will find some suitable topic to talk about.” Erik pauses at the door to straighten his collar.

“The intricacies of human-mutant relations, perhaps.” He leaves the room before Charles could come back with a suitably caustic reply.

It does not spare him the long tirade in his mind that followed after.

***

When he was a boy, before the war tore his family and life apart, Erik had dreamed of constructing a city of his own. Even before his powers manifested, he had been haunted by the imagery of a gleaming steel city in multiple shades and hues of grey and silver, with floating bridges and skyscrapers arching towards the skies in impossible arcs.

Genosha is the young boy’s dream come true. The few moments he has to spare away from the endless council meetings, the public appearances to soothe and placate the victims of the fight for independence, he spends constructing the model city he dreamed of in his childhood. Even though he may not have his signature in every single one of Genosha’s metal structures, he leaves enough of his essence in her core infrastructure; the intricate carvings of mystical beasts in the grand arches framing the entrance into the citadel, dragons and phoenixes entwining each other in feathers and scales in such fluid movement that the carvings seem alive; the bridges that connect all the high-rise buildings, seemingly held together by feather-thin beams, but in truth more stable than the most solid foundation found in the greatest human civilisations.

The model city he has in his office is almost an exact reflection of the Genosha which sprawls across the lands outside his office windows. Minor modifications here and there, perhaps, which he has not quite gotten around to executing in the real world.

As he works on the model, Charles’s presence hums in the background, warm and unobtrusive. He adds the finishing touches to the _qilin_ framing the entranceway to the central gardens, a strange creature introduced to him by the mutant refugees flooding in from China, with elements of the unicorn, horse, deer and ox all combined in one body.

He stands back to survey his work, and realises that he has slipped and gotten the delicate tilt of the _qilin_ ’s neck wrong. His brows furrow – he has not been this clumsy in a long while, not since the ten long years he had in the concrete prison, with nothing else to do but to hone his concentration and focus.

Strange. He shrugs the confusion aside and rectifies the slight flaw. Perhaps he will show Charles Genosha tomorrow.

***

He keeps tabs on Charles throughout the day – he senses the growing exasperation as Charles tries – and fails – numerous times in removing the collar. A few useless attempts at stretching out his telepathy to the nearest occupant of the citadel with the intention of having someone else remove the collar, before the pain from the backlash finally succeeds in dissuading him. A muted sense of disgruntlement as Charles shifts his focus – not yet quite admitting defeat.

Emma checks in on him privately towards the end of the day. Though her face remains an ice-cold veneer of calm and control, the slight tilt in her head when she studies him carefully belies her concern.

“I would offer to read him for you,” Emma says, “But I know how absurdly obsessive you can get with your pet projects.” She settles herself in the couch at the far end of his office, daintily crossing her legs as she helped herself to the decanter of whisky on the coffee table.

“How is the progress?”

“Difficult, but extremely rewarding.” Erik pauses briefly before reaching out for the bright essence he has come to associate with Charles’ telepathy. Shock flares across the link, followed by a dimmed sensation of scalding pain across nerve synapses as Charles instinctively puts up a struggle; Erik attempts to soothe him – _a demonstration, nothing more_ – fury at the other end, before Charles finally gives it up as a lost battle.

He extends thin tendrils of Charles’ powers towards Emma’s mind. Her eyes narrow as she realises what he is trying to do, but she does not shift into diamond form. Curiosity is the strongest emotion radiating in her mind, followed by concern, which slowly transformed into grudging admiration as he carefully sifts through each layer of her thoughts.

_Risky, to try and control Xavier through a collar; although if anyone were to succeed in doing so, Magneto would probably be the only mutant alive able to accomplish such a feat._

Outwardly, she purses her lips critically. “Clumsy, you need more practice.” Erik feels her pushing back against his presence in his mind; on impulse, he spreads the weaves in her mind and wraps them around the icy-cold sting of her powers, which wink out like the embers of a dying flame.

Emma hisses and instantly shifts into diamond form.

“Did he teach you how to do that?”

“No, it was simply an idea of mine,” Erik says. Wondrous, indeed. He knew that Charles is a more powerful telepath than Emma, but he had not known how vast the difference in raw power is.

Emma does not look convinced. “How long have you been working with him?”

“The whole of yesterday,” Erik says, then corrects himself, “Half the day, perhaps, in actually learning how to wield his powers.”

“He fought back, I presume.” Emma’s diamond form slowly melts back into milky pale skin and silky blonde curls. Her telepathy is still muted, and she winces, projecting discomfort so obviously that Erik senses it even without actively seeking out her mind.

“Don’t you dare smother me like that again,” she says, rubbing her temples wearily. “Or you can try managing your own press conferences without me there as crowd control.” She takes another sip from her glass. “Unless he cooperates, it’ll take you years before you master true finesse.”

 “I don’t expect that to be an issue,” he answers. “After all, why should I need to master any level of skill, if I own his collar?”

The _qilin_ spreads it wings and takes flight. Emma watches, her facial expression bored and unimpressed, but the net he has woven across her mind captures her awe.

***

When he returns to Charles’ suite for the night, Charles is settled on the couch with a book in his hands. A distasteful subject matter, Erik presumes, judging from the irritation which simmers in his mind. A quick glance at the cover has him chuckling out loud before he could help himself.

“Rather misleading material, don’t you think?” Charles tosses the book carelessly aside. “I suppose this Patterson is now a leading historian in your circle?”

“He is certainly well respected, yes,” Erik agrees easily.

“I quote, _and in victory, homo superior showed their brothers mercy; mercy which was not shown by homo sapiens to the new rise of evolution in its infant stages,_ ” Charles voice rises a notch, “ _The humans were taken under the care of the mutants and accorded all of the rights required for them to make their home in Genosha._ ”

“As second-rate citizens?” Charles asks, “No rights to medical aid, education or government positions?” His fingers twist themselves in the fabric of the blanket on his legs angrily, the whites of his knuckles showing.

Erik frowns, recognising the opening to an argument that has been going on for years. “It _is_ mercy in light of the fact that the humans would have executed us without a second thought, if we had lost this civil war.” He picks up the book from the couch. “Perhaps I should bring you more reading material. There is a surprisingly large collection that’s been amassed in the past five years.”

“I suppose they are all objective, unbiased accounts written by the faithful mutant subjects of Genosha.”

Erik sits down next to Charles, ignoring the slight stiffening in Charles’ posture as he intentionally brushes up against Charles’ left shoulder. Time to deal with that later, when they resume their lessons.

“You wound me, Charles,” Erik tsks, feigning disappointment. “History is as it is told by the victor.” A slight nudge of the knee – Charles may not be able to feel it physically, but Erik presses the sensation of warmth and intimacy into his mind; pseudo-sensations of what he imagines Charles should have felt.

“I’m no idealist – out there, our mutant brothers and sisters are still fighting a war, and the humans outnumber us by thirty to one. I’m sure their historians have a pretty story to tell about Genosha’s inhuman treatment of its perceived lesser inhabitants, just as _we_ have an equally interesting tale to tell about the mutant witch-hunt that goes on this very moment.”

“Also,” Erik pauses, readying himself for the ultimate strike, “Patterson is a human.” Even though he can detect Charles’ emotions through the link, he watches Charles’ expression closely, intrigued by the changes in the shades of bright blue of Charles’ eyes as Charles’ pupils widen in shock.

“It’s conditioning, you’ve conditioned him and the humans in Genosha, taught them to accept oppression as mercy, abuse as kindness,” Charles meets his gaze unflinchingly, “It makes you no better than those you claim to be superior to.”

“Ah, you’ve said it before; we have it in us to be the better men.” Erik grabs Charles’ hand, feels the soft pads of Charles’s fingers, the smooth skin of his palm – academic’s hands which have yet to see  a day’s worth of menial labour. “And again I match you with this – we already _are_.”

“I could have done what they have done to my race. Easy enough to identify those without the mutant gene, and those without the ability to reproduce offspring with the mutant gene, and march them to the showers, don’t you think?” A dozen years, and Charles is still as blind as the day they first met.  

“I am _humane_ ,” Erik snarls, “Note this, _compassionate,_ not _human_ , so I have spared them their pathetic lives, provided that they are not found guilty of crimes against mutants.” Rage drives him on. “I feed them, clothe them, allow them to fight for whatever shelter Genosha is able to offer, regardless of the overpopulation. That is _mercy_.”

He releases Charles’ hand, and slowly drags his fingers up to curl them around Charles’ neck, not so much a threat as a reminder of their respective positions “You do know you are not the only telepath alive, do you? The strongest, perhaps, but telepathy is far from unique.” A lie, Charles _is_ unique. Erik had met a few telepaths of varying skills other than Emma, but none came close to sharing that brilliant mind, the spark of life that even now pulses so brightly under his hands.

“ _That_ is what the humans plan to do – identification and registration as the first step, and if we had not stood in their way, they would have rounded us up like animals and slaughtered us.”

“It is fear that drives them to this.” Charles keeps his eyes determinedly focused on Erik’s own. “Fear, and greed for power of only a few individuals, who have used their own kind’s fear to further their goals. You have done nothing but allowed them to justify their actions.”

“Really?” Erik tightens his fingers, sensing with satisfaction the minute hitch in breath that betrays Charles’ apprehension. “Do you want to hear how this collar came into existence?”

Without waiting for an answer, he relentlessly pushes on. “As surprised as you are to know that a human wrote a history book praising Genosha’s mercy upon humans, I would imagine that it is nothing compared to the fact that it was a mutant who invented this device.”

Charles shakes his head as his tongue flicks out to wet his lips – good then, that he is finally unsettled. “This is what the humans have driven us to. This device, as an offering – the mutant who invented this gave up the lives of hundreds of his own kind, so that he may enjoy being treated as a _human_. For him, the bracelets, and acceptance into society.”

“You know the rest – mutants collared and deployed to the front of the battlefield. An absolute advantage, indeed, for the humans know that we will not harm our own kind, not when they are innocent.” He needs to thread carefully now that he finally has an advantage. “The mutant who started it all, he has the extremely useful ability of electricity generation – nothing on a large scale, you understand, but crucial in times of war.”

“I understand he screamed for a full day and night, until he is no longer able to speak, when he is finally collared himself – by a human, of course.” Erik traces the sleek lines of Charles’ collar.

Charles swallows and turns his face away. “And you think I deserve this.”

Erik sighs. “How many times do I have to tell you this, Charles? This is not about retribution.”

“Conditioning then, so that I may one day write history books singing your praises.”

“A lesson, perhaps,” Erik concedes, “But certainly not the one delivered by the human handlers to their mutant _pets_.”

He brushes back the hair obscuring Charles’ forehead. A haircut, maybe, he thinks while he gently massages Charles’ scalp. A shorter cut will emphasise Charles’ eyes.

“If you think you are any better than the humans you have condemned so easily, think again.” Charles gasps as Erik unconsciously tightened his grip on his hair. A few strands of hair come loose in his fingers.

“I suppose it is your right to be the judge of that,” Erik says. “Perhaps, one day, I will bring you to a liberated camp.” He lifts an eyebrow at Charles’ expression. “So that you may see what a ‘ _collaring_ ’ entails, as the humans define it.”

Charles laughs, although the sound is hollow and bitter. “Are you so delusional to believe that a comparison between yourself and the worst of mankind would justify whatever you’ve done?”

Erik rubs in circles over the spot where he feels a fading sting. “You need to see what they are capable of, if we do not stop them.”

“As for me, I am long past redemption.” He turns Charles around to face him.

“Now, we are going to try picking up from where we left off yesterday. Can I trust you not to fight me?”

Charles’s eyes instantly harden, and he bites his lips so viciously – a habit Erik has come to associate with Charles being particularly stubborn - that Erik almost tastes the sharp tang of blood on his own tongue.

One step forward, five steps back. Erik grits his teeth.

***

The next morning finds them both in a decidedly dark mood; Erik rubs the fingers of his right hand over his left bracelet as he seethes, purposely letting the dark tendrils of his rage seep through the link. Charles lies awkwardly at the far side of the bed, where Erik had unceremoniously dumped him after an exceptionally violent backlash – _he tried to destroy me_ – Erik’s gut twists at the thought.

Charles pulls his knees up and curls into himself. It is an unconscious gesture that Erik has seen in the collared mutants at the liberated camps – a form of submission to the weight of the disappointment of their handlers, it is said, although lack of coherent explanation from the mutant subjects resulted in the failure to give any conclusion to that theory.

His rage abates like mist dissipating in the morning sun.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, but the words sound hollow to his own ears. Charles does not react. “I’m sorry that this has to happen, but I cannot let you go when you are like this.”

“I plan to take you out today,” he continues, “Would you like that? You have not truly seen Genosha before, I believe.” He ignores the slight shake of Charles’ head, takes it as acknowledgement to his assumption, rather than a refusal to his offer.

He gently turns Charles over and scoops him into his arms to bring him to the washroom. Charles refuses Erik’s attempts to help him with his ablutions – Erik allows him his privacy, although in truth, there is no privacy to be had with the collar – and retreats back into the suite.

It takes Charles awhile, and when he emerges from the washroom, ends of his hair wet and eyes rimmed in red, his mouth twists in displeasure at the shirt and trousers Erik had bid the maid to spread out on the bed.  

It is exhaustion, Erik thinks. He probes at the small bundle of sensations across the link; Charles immediately reacts by reaching for his powers – no backlash, Charles had no intention of harming him – and weaves a frail net over the link, muting the sensations to a small faded hum in Erik’s mind. Charles stares steadfastly at him, daring him to challenge the slight transgression.

Erik turns his head away. The split second had been more than enough.

Fatigue isn’t the cause of the crimson lining the rims of Charles’ eyes.

They circle each other like wounded animals after the small exchange. Charles is testy from the slip in his inhuman control over his show of emotions – _did he see, does he know, does he suspect_ – while Erik is too unsettled, too taken aback by the slight chink in his own perception of Charles, who was, in his mind, always flawless, always confident, to even look Charles in the eye.

It is not that Erik has not seen Charles cry before. Charles actually lets his tears fall easily; emotion, after all, touches a telepath deeper than it would an ordinary being. He had cried at the memory Erik has of his mother, shed his tears when he rejected Erik that fateful day in Cuba.

The tears of anger and frustration had fallen easily enough the past two days.

But Erik had never known Charles to retreat into a corner and cry like a wounded animal in defeat.

It is Charles who finally breaks the uneasy silence. “I am not wearing anything that shows… _this_.” He gestures angrily towards the collar.

“I’ll have the servants bring in a change,” Erik says. His shoulders tighten at the look in Charles’ face – does Charles believe that he will deny him such a request? “Am I such a monster, to deny you your choice in clothing? If you believe that a display of the collar demeans you, then we do not have to reveal it.”

“You have already done enough when you announced my sentence before the whole of Genosha,” Charles says. _And the whole of the world_ , are the unspoken words in Charles’ accusing eyes.

“I can never remove the inhibitor otherwise,” Erik says. “The humans may paint a different picture, but I do not rule as a dictator; any sign of weakness, and I will be required to step down.”

Charles purses his lips. Erik turns away and rings for a servant.

Charles is already his weakness.

***

Charles looks well in dark blue, Erik thinks. The robe clings to his thin figure, and is devoid of any embellishments except a red sash around the waist, which is embroidered with delicate golden thread, and the gold trimmed mandarin collar which conceals the collar. Erik bends down to adjust the stiff fabric of the mandarin collar, twisting the mother-of-pearl into the buttonhole.

A polite knock on the door distracts him. The pitter-patter of tiny feet running across the soft carpet resounds throughout the room, followed by the soft thud of a small body against his knees.

“Vati!” His daughter looks up from where she clings to his knees, while Pietro stands to her side, not being as physically open with his affections as his sister. Their governess hovers anxiously to the left – Erik impatiently waves her out of the room.

“Who is this, Vati?” Wanda asks curiously, looking up at Charles.

“This is Charles, an old... _friend_ of mine,” Erik says, pulling Pietro towards him as well. “Charles, my children, Wanda and Pietro.” Charles looks taken aback – perhaps he hadn’t associated Erik with fatherhood. An unlikely scenario, Erik has to admit.

“Why are you so sad?” Wanda asks, painfully direct in the way children are wont to be.

He expects Charles to fall prey to his daughter’s charms, and Charles, always so predictable when it comes to human emotions, does so almost immediately.

“What makes you think so?” Charles asks, leaning down to ruffle Wanda’s red curls. He smiles at her, intended to reassure, surely, but Wanda has inherited her father’s observation skills.

“Even your smile is sad,” she says. Wanda lets go of Erik’s knees and clambers onto Charles’ knees. “But you are very pretty.” And it is as simple as that with Wanda – like all little girls, she adores pretty things, and apparently Charles falls into that category.

She remains attached to Charles’ lap as they tour the citadel gardens together, chattering incessantly about her favourite toys, her newfound discovery of her powers – although she does not know precisely what they are, except that the maid tends to forget to keep the biscuit jar when Wanda has a craving for biscuits.

“I can get you biscuits if you want,” Wanda says enthusiastically, eager to show off her abilities.

Charles laughs at that; it is the first time Erik has seen him do so out of pure joy since his capture.

“I would like that very much,” he says solemnly. He looks up and catches Erik’s eye, and his laughter falters.

He turns to Pietro. “And what can you do?” Pietro hangs back; he has always been the more reticent of the twins, constantly overwhelmed by his sister’s exuberance. Erik can see that his son is enticed by Charles’ kindliness – Pietro would have fought tooth and nail to have Wanda off Charles’ lap if he had not trusted Charles.

“I am very fast.” Pietro looks down on the ground as he toys shyly with the pebbles with the toe of his left foot. “I can get you biscuits too.” Charles chuckles and gives him a ruffle on his head.

Wanda pouts and winds her arms around Charles’ neck. “No, he can’t. He can’t get up to the shelves.”

“Why don’t Vati get both of you biscuits instead,” Erik says hurriedly, not missing the way Pietro’s face scrunches up in preparation for a much more voluble activity.

 “Teleportation?” Charles asks, once the twins are sufficiently distracted by the ducks by the lake. Erik lifts Charles up from his wheelchair and sits him on the grassy bank; a passerby could be deceived by the picture of domesticity they present – Erik himself unrecognisable in a plain black turtleneck and jeans, and Charles looking almost a different person, clean-shaven, washed, well-fed and dressed in a garment which is oriental-influenced.

“No, inhuman speed,” Erik answers. He surreptitiously touches the bracelets under the sleeves of his shirt, tries to be circumspect when his gaze flicks to the mandarin collar. Charles does not notice it.

Charles had spared only a passing glance for the grandeur of the gardens, with its swooping willows and the rioting colours of its blossoms in full bloom. Some measure of grudging appreciation, perhaps for the elegant arches and intricate pavement carvings, works of art beyond any human, but it was no more than Charles’ usual fascination with mutant abilities.

He is very taken with the twins, however. Genuine affection, perhaps; it can be hard to tell with Charles, with his elaborate displays of warmth and compassion.

“I never knew you had children.” Charles seems uneasy, a slight tone of resentment, even jealousy, creeping into his voice. Another bout of fresh guilt, sour and painful, as Erik’s eyes involuntary travel down Charles’ useless lower half. Charles could probably never father his own children; that beautiful mind, all that power – all to fade away with Charles’ own death.

“A brief, ill-advised encounter,” Erik says. “You will not believe it, but they have a human mother.” He looks out to the calm, still waters. “An intelligent woman who nursed me back to health after a skirmish. She fled when she found out who I was.” Magda was like a thorn torn from his memories; the wound had long since scabbed over, the scars no longer noticeable.

“It is fear, Erik,” Charles says beside him. “Do not take it as a rejection of who you are.”

“I do not particularly care which it was, so you can spare me your lectures.”

“Your children are beautiful.” He absolutely dislikes how Charles attempts to chide him with every single turn of the conversation – she gave you your children, this human woman, you have no right to hate her, you should be grateful.

“I know that.” Charles inclines his head, recognising the dismissal when he hears it. There is time enough for them to quarrel in the privacy of Charles’ rooms, and he has no doubt that Charles will continue fighting despite the futility of it.

“She is human,” he continues, “Impossible for her to understand what I am.” He reaches out to grasp Charles’ hand. “I do not blame her – no human can understand what we are.”

Charles twists his hand in Erik’s grip. Erik holds firm, catches Charles’ jaw with his other hand and leans in.

“Do not mock me,” Charles snarls. Even under the muted link, Charles’ mind is a cacophony of bitter feelings, anger, bitterness, jealousy, resentment. _Children_. Charles had always loved children.

He feels sharp sting against his lips where Charles viciously bites down. Sweet taste of blood – his own – he presses Charles’ mouth open, swirling the thick liquid with his tongue, wanting Charles to taste it as well.

 _I hate you I hate you hate you_.

***

“Vati, can’t we stay too?” Wanda asks petulantly. She clings protectively against Charles; mouth turned down in an all-too familiar pout.

“Why don’t your father and I come see the two of you before you go to bed?” Charles suggests. A manipulative move, and immensely presumptuous, to think that Erik will acquiesce to his suggestion to avoid disappointing his children, that his children can be used as a tool to dissuade him from his goals.

“Vati, please?” Wanda turns her imploring eyes onto him.

“We shall see, shan’t we,” Erik says, “It really depends on whether Charles isn’t too tired at the end of the day.” Flip the table; easy enough for Charles to cooperate, is it not.

Charles’ eyes are tight when the twins leave with their governess.

“Don’t play this game with me, Charles,” Erik says, pouring a glass of whisky for himself. “Never, I repeat, _never_ , use my children against me.”

“Isn’t that what _you_ are trying to do?” Charles snaps, his eyes ablaze with rage. “Bring your children into this twisted equation, so that you can get what you want, whatever it is, from me?”

The fine whisky tastes like sawdust. “Think whatever you want,” Erik replies, “Funny enough that you care to acknowledge that there _is_ an equation.” He walks across the room and tears the pearl button off the mandarin collar.

He goes alone to Wanda and Pietro’s room that night.


	5. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter may contain triggering depictions of violence.

“Are we seeing Charles today, Vati?” Pietro asks plaintively. Wanda has reduced herself to sulking in a corner, despite her governess’ efforts at coaxing her out. An ongoing tantrum from a perceived failure by her father to keep his promise.

Erik is in a decidedly dark mood – it seems to be his constant state of being with Charles around – but he gives some thought to the idea. Perhaps leaving his children with Charles would work towards softening Charles’ disposition, and _no_ , he _isn’t_ using his children as leverage, despite Charles’ accusations. Far better to occupy Charles with the twins than to have him drive himself and Erik both insane by his endless efforts at tampering with the collar. The joy Erik had felt through the link when they were with the twins was not an illusion, despite Charles’ subsequent attempts at manipulation.

A certain degree of trust is required, though, to leave his children with Charles without his supervision. Especially since Charles had shown himself capable enough of using the twins to further his attempts at thwarting Erik’s efforts in securing his submission through the collar. Perhaps it is too soon.

“Tonight, when I’m back,” Erik says. Pietro brightens up visibly, and Wanda deigns to crawl out from her corner, much to her governess’ relief. Wanda’s hexes are hardly ever effective at her young age, but it had been immensely embarrassing for the poor woman to inexplicably acquire a ripped seam in the back of her skirt.

He dismisses his mind’s image of Charles, angry and heated after another night of trading barbed insults and fighting against submitting to the urge to wield his own gifts, just because Erik demanded that he do so through the collar. His own mind throbs, the effects of lack of sleep and his own fumbling attempts at trying to channel Charles’ power himself. Emma had been unable to offer much guidance, the inherent nature of her own telepathy too different from Charles’ for her to understand the intricacies of Charles’ powers.

Charles sleeps on in his own suite, from where Erik had left him under the influence of a link-induced slumber. Easier to render him unconscious, if only for a few hours, than to deal with Charles in the aftermath. Erik does not dare leave Charles under a compulsion for any longer than that; the effects of collaring an omega-class mutant, particularly one determined to tear himself apart before submitting to the link, are enough of a problem without adding further complications to the mix.

Equally unheard of is having an omega-class mutant as a handler – although the collars are used in Genosha on mutant criminals, the collars serve only as a means of confinement without bars and a deterrent from crime, never to actually bring a mutant to his or her knees, to force full submission. Before Charles, there had never been a need for a handler in Genosha.

Not that he had imagined using the collar for that purpose, to _force_ absolute submission. Erik rubs the bracelets on his wrists; his options are dwindling rapidly as the clock runs down.

***

Erik is deep in contemplation over the schematics of the magnetic fields encompassing Genosha when Azazel materialises in his room with an unconscious dark-haired woman in his arms. _Mutant_ , Erik corrects himself, noticing the inhibitor on her neck.

“I found her in the Denver base,” Azazel says, “Blob is leading the liberation mission, but I had to bring her back once I realised who she was from her files.”

Erik does not see what justifies the haste for this particular mutant until he disables the inhibitor with a quick touch of his powers.

The woman’s skin ripples into familiar dark blue scales, each layer both preciously delicate and indomitable in their strength.

“What do we do with her?” Azazel asks finally.

“We treat her no differently,” Erik says, images of Mystique as Charles’ beloved Raven, with her flushed rounded pink cheeks and loose blonde hair flashing through him mind. He finds it fascinating that Mystique, either by some sub-consciously driven instinct or fate, had chosen a default persona which is so different from her base human form. “She can choose to join us or leave once she is recovered. Ensure she is kept under surveillance until then.”

His unspoken words are clear enough – _make sure she does not learn about Xavier_.

***

The atmosphere in his office suite is tensed as Erik leans forward and presses down the sides of the map with metal weights. The air feels almost electric, with him being so highly strung that his powers had leaked into his surroundings. The reports keep flooding in – mutants with teleportation abilities of varying degrees, including his trusted lieutenant, Azazel – popping in and out of the room with alarming speed.

The news they bring is no surprise, but it’s no less disturbing. The humans are amassing their forces – troops, nuclear weapons,collared _mutants_. The attacks are expected from both directions – from the West, the United States, the North, members of the European Communities, led by the United Kingdom, and from the East, Japan. Genosha was not without its potential allies, with Russia declaring its support – a calculated political move against the United States, considering their stance during Cuba, and China potentially agreeing to a tentative alliance after recognising Genosha’s role in taking in Chinese refugees swarming in from all parts of the world. War is inevitable but not feasible – not until Erik ensured that Genosha itself is impenetrable. That involved stretching his reach across the African nations, to establish enough control to prevent invasion by foreign troops without debilitating damage to the enemy, at the very least.

“We need to march in a month,” Wyngarde says. Azazel and Toad shift slightly – a month could be considered impossible by some. Emma remains impassive – a month could also be far too late; by then, their enemies could have established strongholds in the Middle East and South America.

His powers wrap around the familiar metal around his wrists. The undercurrent of Charles’ power surges under his very veins – a constant reminder of what he could accomplish, what he _should_ accomplish.

Drawing a deep breath, he marks a line from Genosha to Egypt, extrapolates it to Turkey without a moment’s hesitation. “We leave in two weeks.”

***

He brings the twins with him to Charles’ room that night. It is a transparent attempt on his part to soothe and placate, and the derisive look Charles gives him once the children’s backs are turned says what Charles thinks of it clearly enough.

Pietro, once he has warmed up enough to Charles, is almost insatiable in his quest for Charles’ attention. Charles is adept enough in indulging the twins and sharing his attention between them, encouraging each in turn in their fledgling attempts to wield their mutant gifts.

Erik allows Charles’ own curious exploration of his children’s gifts; Charles, has always been more suited for paternal role than Erik. Even with the six-year-olds, he has taken on a pedagogic manner, which Erik finds both infuriating and endearing.

Charles pointedly ignores Erik himself, but the air is thick with tension, Charles’ apprehension and anxiety seeping through the link like sweet poison. Erik is growing use to the gradual rise of dread that settles in the bundle of emotions at the back of his mind as each hour of the day passes – by seven each night, Charles would have mostly worked himself up into a frenzy of conflicted emotions. All poised, to strike once Erik walked through the door to his suite. A waste of energy on Charles’ part, certainly, as it had served nothing so far but render Charles even more vulnerable to compulsion, if Erik chooses to use it.

_When_ he chooses to uses it. It is inevitable – already, he has delayed it for too long.

It isn’t long before the twins are clamouring onto Charles’ lap, pleading to him to read to them, a familiar prelude to their bedtime. They formed a pretty picture of domesticity – a loving father and his children – the soft, low timbre of Charles’ cultured accent echoing throughout the lavishly furnished suite.

_“Hemul,’ said the Snork. ‘This is all a terrible catastrophe, but will you be kind enough to lend us your dress_ _for a short time. We want to make a balloon out of it.’_

“Charles, what’s a catas…something?” Wanda asks, raising her head sleepily from its spot on Charles’ lap.

“Ca-tas-tro-phe,” Charles says, enunciating each syllable slowly, his clipped accent even more obvious than before. “It means a disaster.” Erik watches as he gently runs his fingers through Wanda’s red curls. “Something very bad.”

“Did a cat…as…trophy to you, Charles?” Pietro quips.

Charles’ fingers pause in their tracks. “Why do you ask that?” He resumes stroking Wanda’s hair.

“You never told us why you are always sad.”

“Well,” Charles reaches out to ruffle Pietro’s hair, “You can say that you are right. I lost something very important to me.”

“What is it?”

Erik gets up and walks over to the couch. Bending down to lift Wanda from Charles’ lap, whose eyes are already drooping shut despite her struggles to stay awake, he beckons at Pietro, who promptly hops off the couch to trail after Erik and his sister.

“Thank you for reading to us, Charles,” Wanda says, her words slurred with sleep, “Vati never told us how Stork rescued Moomintroll.”

 “How very horrid of him,” Charles says, lips twisting into a wry smile, just as the twins’ nursemaid appears at the door.

Judging from the tight set of Charles’ shoulders, he is expecting Erik to turn around once the door closes and figuratively kick him into submission. Eventually, that _will_ have to happen, but Erik intends to delay the inevitable just a while longer. Two weeks, he had said. Time enough to do what is necessary. He goes towards the chess board at the table by the fire side – burnished steel and silver – and inclines his head towards to the armchair opposite him.

Charles transfers himself over from the couch and swiftly makes his first move – pawn to e4. Erik responds automatically. Pawn to e5.

Knight to f3 – prelude to the Ruy Lopez.  

Pawn to f5.

“Your audacity is frankly quite astounding,” Charles says, barely giving the chessboard a glance before moving his bishop to c4. Erik doubts he is referring to his choice to use the Latvian Gambit.

“You are hardly objecting to the game, are you?” Erik replies, taking Charles’ pawn.

Charles’ mouth quirks at that. “Well, I do find it preferable to the alternative,” he comments airily, taking one of Erik’s pawns in return.

“Don’t taunt me.” He expects Charles to bristle at the less-than-subtle threat, and come back with some suitably scathing reply. He had certainly asked for it. He does not expect the tremble in Charles’ shoulders, the slow ripple of silent laughter which shakes Charles’ body until it bubbles out of his mouth.

“Oh, don’t fret so,” Charles says, still smiling, “If anyone needs to fret, it should be me.” There it is – the sardonic barb, although Erik had expected a lot worse.

“Why.” If Charles is set on quarrelling, they may as well start now.

Charles looks up from the chessboard. He worries his bottom lip with his front teeth – a habit he has had since Erik had first met him twelve years ago. A slight flush rises in Charles’ cheeks, echoing the slow familiar rise of heat in Erik’s stomach. Erik leans forward, distantly aware that he is upsetting his queen, toppling his king, knights, bishops, as he places his hands on the chessboard to support himself.

“You can say no,” he says. Charles’ cheeks flush an even deeper red. Erik could have easily guessed the reason even if he had not noticed the slight trembling of Charles’ hands, a small betrayal of Charles’ barely restrained fury at Erik’s _nerve_ to think that he has the power to say if Charles is able or not to do _anything_.

But that is the issue at heart, isn’t it – he _does_.

Charles is emanating anger, uneasiness, no, uncertainty, hesitation, _anticipation_ – a myriad of emotions that bleed into each other, leaving Erik’s own mind spinning, even though he is only an observer in Charles’ mind at that very moment.

The chess pieces fall onto the carpet.

Erik’s mouth falls open in a stunned ‘o’ as Charles presses his lips roughly against Erik’s, tongue pushing messily into Erik’s opened mouth. The kiss is without any finesse, certainly far below the standards Erik imagined Charles should have, given what he has witnessed of Charles’ flirtatious tendencies. Charles’ hands grab at his collar, pulling him deeper into the kiss, their teeth clicking painfully against each other’s as they grapple with each other.

When Charles finally releases him, the link between them is blazing with the heat of a thousand suns, the thick golden tendrils of Charles’ telepathy tangled intimately with Erik’s own conscience – he had reached out sub-consciously for the fount of power through the link in his desire, Erik realises belatedly. Dimly, he registers the table crashing to the side in his, _their_ , eagerness to get closer to each other. Like fumbling teenagers, they pull at each other’s clothes, Erik’s collar coming undone, Charles’ robes falling off his shoulders as Erik lifts him by the undersides of his arms and carries him to the bed.

Erik presses Charles into the soft mattress, crashes his mouth onto Charles’ even as Charles surges up to meet him. Skin to skin, lips to lips, he luxuriates against the feel of warm skin, marred only by the scars of war and captivity.

Erik runs his fingers across Charles’ eyelids, down his flushed cheeks and the smooth line of his throat to the collar resting at the base. He drinks in the sweet-foreign essence of Charles’ powers greedily, drawing from the link until the sweetness burst into a sparks of flaring white-hot pain across his vision. Blinking, he comes around to sharp welts of pain on his back – echoed two-fold in Charles’ conscience through the link.

Charles is gasping for air, hands clutching and clawing at his collar in a futile effort to remove the device. The underneath of Charles’ fingernails are stained with blood – Erik’s and his own.

“No,” Charles gasps. Erik feels him try to wrestle back his power through the link, another pointless endeavour, as Charles could not so much as touch it if Erik does not will him to do so. “No, no, no, _no_.”

Erik lifts his hands from Charles’ throat and gets up from Charles’ body. He holds onto Charles’ powers, however, submerges himself in it and reaches out for Charles’ mind. Charles’ eyes widen when he realises the mental intrusion, but it is easy enough to bat aside any natural defences Charles throws up instinctively – without his telepathy, the shielding is really no more than what a mere human can achieve.

“ _You said I could say no_.” The words ring out clearly in Charles’ mind, although the ability to physically speak seems to be beyond him.

“And _you_ know perfectly well that the option to refuse doesn’t extend to _this_ ,” Erik says, pressing deeper into Charles’ mind with Charles’ own powers to drive the point home. Charles’ mind is fascinating; a complex web of thoughts and images dulled by a haze of pain through the link. The pain explodes into a destructive nova of agony when Erik attempts to delve further, the backlash from Charles’ desperate attempts to wield his powers to hurt ricocheting back into Charles’ mind.

An ingenuous way to keep him out, Erik admits, grudgingly impressed. He retreats back into his own mind, letting the agony fade back into the second awareness through the link. The pain still throbs unceasingly at the back of his mind, increasing in level until Charles twists away and retches from the intensity of it.

Erik lays a hand on a bare shoulder, glistening with cold sweat, as Charles heaves over the side of the bed. He massages the damp skin absently until Charles’ body finally stills. Ringing for a servant with a flick of his power, he twists Charles back to face him, holding him in place until the servant appears and efficiently cleans up the mess. Charles flinches, just once, at the sound of the maid scrubbing out his sick from the fabric behind him, faint tendrils of embarrassment seeping through the link.

“Drink,” Erik says, pressing a glass of water to Charles’ lips, when the maid finally leaves the room.

Charles takes this particular instruction eagerly, at least, swallowing the cool water in huge gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the movement of water down his throat.

Erik takes the empty glass away from him when he is finished, setting it back down on the table with a sharp ‘clink’. He leans in, aiming for Charles’ lips, only to brush against his cheek as Charles turns away.

“Retracting your offer?” Erik asks. He’s not surprised when Charles catches the hand he is sliding down the open front of Charles’ robe. “Or is your offer only open when you think that I’m more liable to being manipulated when we’re fucking?”

Charles’ hand tightens over his. “Is that what you think?” he asks. The heat from his palm feels too warm, like the slow trickle of anger that filters through the link.

“It is what I _know_ , what _your_ mind tells me.” Erik keeps his voice low, the way he tampers his fury to a slow burn at the base of throat. He swallows, tasting the bitterness of bile, the aftermath of nausea from delving into Charles’ mind. He is half terribly tempted, half repulsed by the idea of dipping into that mind again; he still sees himself through Charles’ eyes, sharp lines and contours which serve as a target for Charles’ resentment and anger. The image fades into a tangle of bodies, all without emotion on Charles’ end, except for the driving purpose of wresting control back from Erik when he is perceived to be at his most vulnerable.

***

Charles looks up at Erik, his eyes tight around the corners and high spots of colour flaring in his cheeks. Erik’s own pulse races under Charles’ thumb as he realises that he had probably driven those images back into Charles’ mind with his own clumsy grasp of Charles’ powers. There is certainly no physical desire on either end now, not on Erik’s, and certainly not on Charles’, if Charles had ever looked at the potential sexual act as anything other than a necessary sufferance in the first place. Erik will be damned if he allowed Charles to martyr himself this way.

“What’s wrong? Cat finally got your tongue?” Erik pulls his hand away. The heat from Charles’ palm lingers on the back of his hand, the same way the sweat on Charles’ skin sticks uncomfortably to Erik’s fingers. He pulls Charles up, dispassionately pulling the robe back over Charles’ shoulders and tightening the sash at the front. Humiliation washes over the link when he lifts Charles into his arms as easily as he would a child. Wrapping a blanket over Charles, he walks towards the Venetian doors, pushing the hinges outwards with his powers and stepping out onto the balcony.

Erik had always found the experience of losing himself in the pull of the earth’s magnetic fields liberating. It’s like stepping into a maelstrom, a storm of opposing forces that pull and push against his powers until he brings them under his control. Charles is weightless in his arms, borne by the same repulsion of gravity, as he guided the same fields to float them across to the edge of Genosha.

He keeps Charles pressed against his side, a warm presence against the brazing sea-breeze. Anger still roils against his mind, _in_ his mind, Charles’ emotions bleeding across and seamlessly blending with Erik’s own frustration.  

“Yes,” Charles’ voice finally breaks the tense silence between them. Erik snaps his head towards his side. Charles is staring out across the ocean; when he speaks, he sounds resigned. “Was that what you were expecting me to say? That I deliberately manipulated you so that I could stab you in the back once I got the chance?”

Erik clenches his jaw as Charles continues, relentless in his quest to resume their verbal battle. “I already told you that you should have killed me, that _I_ would have killed you, given the chance.” Under the pale moonlight, he sees Charles’ mouth twist into an angry snarl. “All’s fair in love and war, don’t you think?”

Charles’ mouth snaps close when Erik dips into the stream of his telepathy and _twists_ , drawing the power out as easily as if he had drawn upon his own, and brought it to his own mind. Eyes widening, Charles’ power unfurls like a bud in spring, Charles momentarily shocked into submission. Erik feels it when Charles takes over, when he acquiesces to Erik’s command to look into Erik’s mind, skilled, delicate touches weaving into Erik’s consciousness. He chafes instinctively at the intrusion and fights down the urge to slam up mental walls of steel and iron against Charles’ invasion.

Even in his bitterness, Charles’ touch is gentle - light, fleeting touches which are almost tender as he flips through Erik’s mind. It is wildly different from Erik’s own clumsy attempts at wielding Charles’ power, which are like a child’s fumbles compared to true mastery. He directs Charles to the brightest corner of his own mind, where his awareness of magnetic forces lies, and lets Charles _feel_ the fields surrounding Genosha, see the shimmering veils of pure physical force he had woven as a fortress through Erik’s eyes.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Erik asks, when the warmth of Charles’ touch finally leaves his mind. “Beautiful, yet still so fragile, so one-dimensional.” Charles stiffens next to him, no doubt already catching on to the underlying meaning of Erik’s words. Probably already had realised what Erik meant to have him do, once he touched the magnetic fields with Erik’s powers. Charles had always been brilliant. Naïve, yes, but brilliant.

“All it needs, really, is a layer of psionic shielding, don’t you think?” Erik keeps his voice neutral and moves a hand to the back of Charles’ neck, gently massaging the cold skin above the brim of the collar.

“Is this why, then…” Charles’ chest heaves heavily; the feeling of nausea rises again, Charles’, not his. A sure sign that Charles is attempting to use his powers without Erik’s express permission, although it is not to harm him – Charles would have been writhing on the sands if he had tried.

“Why I collared you?” Erik finishes, “No, but it was something I had in mind when I planned to do so.”

“It never occurred to you to just _ask_ , did it?” The feeling of nausea subsides as Charles visibly brings his instincts under control. The muscles under Erik’s fingers are taut; if it is even possible, he suspects Charles would have turned around and delivered a punch to his face.

“Would you have said yes?” Charles trembles under him, his body shaking with unrestrained mirth, sheer disbelief pouring through the link.

“Are you out of you mind?” Charles chokes, “ _No_.” He gestures blindly at the horizon, unable to see the force fields without Erik’s power. “That’s a bloody weapon capable of indiscriminate mass _genocide_ , but _you_ know that, you absolute wanker, _designed_ it to kill, not repel.”

“The shields will do no harm if there is no attempt to breach them.” He brings a palm to the side of Charles’ face. “Charles,” he says, trying to sound placating, “You can bring it one step further, restrict the shields’ force to only those who come with the intent to harm.” Charles is still under his hand. “We are fighting a _war_ , Charles. Why do you refuse to accept that?”

“Why do _you_ refuse to see that not every man who attempts to breach Genosha’s borders does so of his own will? Imagine _me_ trying to bring down your shields,” Charles tugs at his collar for emphasis, “Would you have killed _me_ then?”

Erik’s hand tightens around the soft flesh of Charles’ neck.

“Please, Erik, I can help you,” Charles’s voice is tender, his clipped accent coaxing the tightness out of Erik’s chest. “I will build you the psionic shields you want – they don’t have to kill to be capable of protecting your borders, I assure you.” Charles lifts his arms and presses his hands against Erik’s, just above the collar.

His voice permeates Erik’s mind, soothing and gentle like a spring breeze. “I will do anything you want.” Erik feels cool fingers tangling together with his own. “You don’t need this to have me.” The fingers guide him across the seamless metal; it is so _easy_ to unlatch the collar, just a flick of his power and it will be over.

Erik’s vision fills with red.

“ _How_?” he snarls, twisting around and pinning Charles down onto the ground. Charles rasps painfully, his fingers scrambling helplessly for purchase against Erik’s hands, which are slowly but surely choking the life out of him.

He watches dispassionately as Charles’ thrashing slows to a stop, and the fingers pulling uselessly at his own fall to the ground in defeat. Charles is still breathing, barely conscious, when Erik finally loosens his grip. A few seconds pass before Charles’ chest heaves violently, sucking in air in painful gasps as the red in his face slowly recedes.

“How?” Erik repeats, tightening his hands slightly in warning.

Charles chokes under him. “I only said – ” he tries to hook his fingers under Erik’s hands, “what you wanted to hear.” Erik feels something warm and wet on the back of his hands. Tears, he realises, of pain and anger, compounded with frustration, rolling down Charles’ cheeks even though he is frantically trying to blink them back.

“You were trying to _control_ me.” Erik could not keep down the volume of his voice, as he feels the rage rising in him again. “I _felt_ you in my mind, trying to manipulate me into doing what _you_ want.” The thumping of Charles’ hand on the soft sands startles him from his fury-fueled haze, and he abruptly loosens his grip on Charles’ neck.

“No, _you_ were trying to control me,” Charles wheezes. “What were you planning to do, hm? Drag me to the front of the masses again, push me to my knees and compel me to use my powers to _your_ ends?” He coughs and drags a hand over his neck – the imprints of Erik’s fingers burn red against the pale skin, even under the pale moonlight. “Pardon me if I think it better to have things done _my_ way. A lot less screaming on my end is highly preferable from my perspective, you must understand.”

He twists his body out of Erik’s grasp, rolling a few inches to the side. “I would have, you know – ” he says quietly, “Compromised to a certain extent.” He laughs, although the laughter immediately ceases as the pain in his throat swells to the point of being unbearable. The hurt is distant in Erik’s mind, but very real. “Given you what you want. I wasn’t lying.”

Erik looks down at Charles’ supine form. He looks a wreck – sand caught in his hair, and dusting across fair skin like freckles; blotches of red still marred his checks, much as the fierce swelling of his throat did. The blanket and the sash holding his robe together had come undone during his struggles, revealing an expanse of skin, sickly pale under the faint light and against the backdrop of the fine yellow sands.  His legs are spread apart, frail and broken, wasted away. He looks absolutely harmless, but is more deadly than a viper. A viper that Erik holds closest to his heart, Erik thinks, laughing out loud.

A viper that never ceases in its seduction, even now. “Let me show you how I see you,” Charles says, reaching up to cup Erik’s hands in his face. “Please, at least give me this.” He pulls loose the chains reining his powers in – Erik releases his hold on the link – _foolish, **insane**_ of him to do so, and Charles immediately brings all of his powers unto Erik’s mind. Rapidly flashing images – himself, soaked through and immensely vulnerable, lashing out instinctively at anyone who dared venture close, _brilliant_ , _marvelous_ mutation, so perfect, all hard lines and sharp corners, just like his physical self, steel eyes, high cheekbones, cutting edges, _beautiful_ , tortured, misguided soul, but with the capacity for so much cruelty and violence. He feels Charles’ _want_ , an attraction that sparked because of Charles’s fascination with his mutation, pure physical lusting after Erik’s body, but transforming into something desperate after Charles fell, so easily, for Erik’s _mind_. Sees the passion warp into hatred and bitterness at Erik’s betrayal in Cuba, in Washington, again, at the city square in Genosha, but the undercurrent of desire no less intense for it.

Charles pulls him in, his teeth cutting into Erik’s lips and drawing blood when he mashes their mouths together – pinpricks of pain that rebounds across the link. There is the thirst for revenge, to kill, quenched by Charles under the hungry tangle of tongues. A desire to hurt, buried under the foolish optimism that he can bend Erik to his will.

“No,” the mental connection snaps at his command, an eerie silence blanketing his mind, where Charles’ presence had almost been overpowering mere seconds ago.

“No,” Erik says again, even though the aftertaste of Charles lingers on his tongue, all spice and resentment and silken Scotch.

“I’m sorry.” He feels nothing but a leaden numbness at the other end. Charles stares blankly at him, silent in the face of rejection.

“We do not want the same thing.”

***


End file.
